Hurt
by Blessed Lunatic
Summary: post-Becoming. Rupert Giles hurt.


**Title:** Hurt

**Rating:** PG-13

**Characters: **Giles, Joyce

**Pairing:** None. Mentions of Giles/Jenny and Buffy/Angel

**Spoilers:** Everything up to and including Becoming Part 2.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are Joss'. Spelling/grammar errors are mine.

* * *

Rupert Giles hurt.

His fingers hurt with throbbing pain every time he temporarily forgot about the damage and the splints and absently reached out with them - to retrieve his teacup, to remove his glasses, to pick up another book - and ended up bashing them into the table, the book, even his own head.

His wrists hurt from the rope burn - rubbed raw by the fibers at his initial attempt to free himself before giving over to the futility of his actions.

His every joint was sore with the pain Angelus had inflicted upon them...not enough to break anything, not anything more than his fingers, at least, but just enough to send stabbing jolts of pain throughout his body with the slightest movement.

His back - _oh God, his back_ - Angelus had removed Giles' jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, had laughed wickedly and leered as he commented about wanting to see what the reserved librarian was hiding under all the tweed. It was disturbing in a way he'd not expected. Vampires had often been known to be a bit twisted in their tastes, but there'd been nothing in his research on Angel to indicate a proclivity for torture of the sexually violent sort. The demon had growled in delight when he'd revealed the smooth broadness of Giles' shoulders and back, and had declared his skin a fit canvas for his artistic talents. Giles shuddered at the memory. Angelus had carved intricate swirls into his flesh with a white-hot knife; sliced away ribbons of skin to create a delicate pattern that could almost be called beautiful had it not been carved into living flesh by a madman. Each slice had been followed by the excruciating pressure of the flat of the knife blade, the heated metal serving to cauterize the cuts, before a tiny reprieve while Angelus placed the knife back into the hot coals to prepare for his next cut. Thankfully Giles had passed out from pain and Angelus had gotten bored with his artistic endeavor before he'd managed to cover much more than the expanse of skin over Giles' left shoulder blade. All in all, he supposed he'd gotten off easily. The burns were healing, but his back would be forever decorated by a flowing pattern of ragged scars. A permanent tattoo to remind him of his torture whenever the damaged scar tissue might itch or stretch, or whenever he caught sight of his back in the bathroom mirror.

His head hurt from the beating, from clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth through the pain, and most of all from Drusilla's mental invasion - a different kind of hurt, that. Deeper, less tangible. Painkillers didn't seem to touch it. It throbbed and stung and made him wince with the pain of half-remembered thoughts, unsure of what was real and what had been placed there. It was, in many ways, the worst pain out of all the residual discomfort he felt. The frustration, the injustice, the emotional weakness of it...it itched inside his brain, unreachable, incurable.

His _heart_ hurt.

Buffy was gone. They'd heard nothing. Willow and Xander had reported that Mrs. Summers had called them asking if they knew anything or had heard from her. They had no idea where she was. Her own mother had no idea where she was.

He'd betrayed her.

Not in any intentional way, of course, he tried to remind himself yet again, but he'd been weak. He'd given in to what should have been an obvious mental trick. Because of his weakness Angelus had almost destroyed everything, and it had been Buffy who had taken on the task of sending the monster wearing her lover's face into hell.

_Jenny._

Her strikingly beautiful features. Her deep, dark, enchanting eyes. She'd been there, impossibly there before him, soothing him with words and touch. His Jenny, who hadn't survived the hellmouth for long enough to even be called his. He'd hoped she would be, one day. They'd already discovered the worst secrets about each other, logically there'd been nowhere to move but forward. If only he'd stayed with her at the school. If only she'd done her work from home instead. If only he'd forgiven her sooner. If only his loyalty hadn't belonged to Buffy first and foremost. If only he could've felt sorry that it did. If only they hadn't wasted so much time, foolishly taking for granted that they'd have it. If only he wasn't doomed to a life filled with responsibility and sacrifice. If only...

He could spend a lifetime dwelling on what ifs. He wouldn't. He couldn't afford to. Jenny was gone. His work was not. He had to focus.

Gingerly he placed his glasses back on his nose and returned his attention to the book in his lap. He'd been trying to find a more powerful location spell. The basic one he'd known since his youth didn't seem to be wielding any results. Buffy was proving impossible to pinpoint, as the circle of candle stubs and pools of melted wax on his floor testified to. He'd tried it more than once - had spent the better part of two days, when he wasn't sleeping, trying every variation on the spell that he knew. After the eighth disappointing attempt, he'd admitted defeat and turned elsewhere.

The school library was where he kept the books he'd needed, on a tall shelf in his office away from curious eyes. And so, deciding that two sick days were enough, he'd pulled himself out of bed and hobbled his bandaged and bruised body to work that morning for the sole purpose of retrieving them, even if it meant spending the day in a painkiller-induced drowsy haze. He'd stopped taking the pills that afternoon. His mind had to be clear in order for any spell he might try to work properly.

He hurt.

Willow remained optimistic that her spell had worked and that Buffy was merely off with a re-souled Angel enjoying some time together. Giles doubted it. Buffy had often forgotten to check in with him after a patrol, but as blinded by her feelings for Angel as she often was, she would never be so careless or flighty as to not report what had happened, especially not after all that Angel had done. She could be a little selfish at times, though he supposed most teenagers were apt to be from time to time, and not usually with intent or malice, but she'd always shown concern for her friends, and he couldn't believe that she would simply leave without making sure that they were all right. Especially Willow. But regardless, he knew Angelus was no longer a threat, which meant Buffy had done what had been required of her. Giles' concern was that Willow had been all too correct about her feeling that the spell had been successful. The others hadn't seemed to have thought through the implications of what it could mean if it had. If Acathla had already been awakened, if the process had already started...had Buffy been forced to destroy not the demon, but the vampire with a soul whom she loved? And even if the spell hadn't worked in time, there would still be the emotional consequences – all the guilt and regret she must be feeling at having had to destroy her first real love...the poor girl must be in turmoil, wherever she was. He understood her desire to run away. He understood it all too well. This life was a heavy burden that could be at times unbearable.

But he wanted her back where she belonged. He needed to know she was safe. His role as her Watcher was a part of him that could no longer be considered a mere title. He was her guardian, her guide...and, he might as well admit it, he cared for her in a way that went far beyond duty. It was in his job description to help her, train her, care for her...it made no mention of loving her. But Buffy wasn't the typical Slayer, and somehow, without his even realizing it, his exasperation had rather rapidly turned to affection. He didn't know if his fierce desire to see her safe was simply the nature of his job as Watcher, or if it was something more paternal that had grown within him. The bond between a Watcher and Slayer was a deep and mystical one, after all. Destiny had called them together. But he had a niggling feeling that he was somehow not supposed to be thinking more about keeping her safe because she was Buffy than doing so because she was the Slayer and had a job to perform.

He had to find her. He knew she was capable, but he was still worried for her safety. _That_, he suspected, had little to nothing to do with his job description.

A tired sigh escaped him as he once again pulled the glasses from his face to massage his weary eyelids. Focus. He needed to focus, but his mind kept wandering back to Buffy. _That's exactly why you need to focus, so you can find a way to locate her!_ He mentally chided himself.

But dear lord, he hurt. Everything hurt.

Movement outside the window caught his attention and pulled his mind back to the present. He squinted, trying to see in the dim light that illuminated the darkness in the courtyard outside. The shape was human, though there was every possibility in this town that the owner of the shape was not. But it didn't move with the fluid grace of a seasoned vampire, though there _was_ something graceful about it. Definitely not Xander, and Willow wasn't up to walking just yet. The movements seemed familiar somehow, almost like...like...

Could it be?

The shape walked out of his line of sight from the window. Gathering strength he wouldn't have thought he possessed at the moment, he rose from his chair and hobbled to the door quickly, eagerly...if there was any possibility that it could be...

He swiftly gripped the doorknob and flung open the door, ready to call out to the shape - her name already on his lips - "Bu-" He stopped. "Oh."

The figure standing on his doorstep blinking in surprise with a hand raised and ready to knock _was_ a Summers, but not the one he'd been hoping for. The momentary surge of adrenaline left him as his whole body slumped in pain and disappointment.

"Uh...Mrs. Summers?" It wasn't a question, but it came out that way as his pain-muddled brain struggled to comprehend why she'd be at his flat.

Joyce Summers gave a slight shake of her head to clear away the unexpected startle of having the door open just before her knuckles had been about to connect. "Mr. Giles," she greeted as she lowered her hand and regained her poised composure.

Giles was fairly certain that Angelus had never gotten to Buffy's mother. Buffy had made sure of that. But his certainty faltered at the sight of her at his door after dark. Hoping she'd forgive his rudeness, he merely backed up a few steps and gave his head a quick sideways nod to indicate she come inside.

As she stepped through the doorway, it struck him that he didn't even know if a verbal or written invitation was what was required to gain a vampire entry, or if, in fact, a simple nod of the head would do. He'd have to research it later. If Joyce Summers didn't suddenly sprout fangs and kill him, that was.

"Is...is there something I can do for you?" he asked as he closed the door behind her and leaned heavily against it.

She spun around to look at him. "My daughter is missing, Mr. Giles. She left a note that told me to talk to you, that you would explain. You can give me some answers."

Well. There were no fangs, but if looks could kill, he'd be a lifeless heap on the floor by now. He opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it again as her words registered, a quizzical expression crossing his features.

"She - she left a note?"

"Yes," Joyce repeated impatiently, "she gave me some ridiculous story about being a vampire slayer, then she disappeared and left behind a note. It said you had answers. I want answers."

His eyes went cold. Ignoring his pain, he stepped closer to her, looming into her personal space. "She left a note. She left a note specifically instructing you to contact me, and you waited three days to do so? I've been worried sick!"

Joyce's mouth dropped open as she stared back at him in angry disbelief. "_You've_ been - " she shook her head. "What is going on here? I _trusted_ you. I _appreciated _the way you looked out for Buffy and her friends. You're obviously closer to her than I realized." She pulled herself up to her full height and glared at him in a way that only a mother could. "What is this? What _are_ you to my daughter? To all of them? Your address was in her notebook. Do students often visit you at home, or is it just Buffy?"

He glared right back. "I can assure you," he spoke calmly despite the surge of indignant rage her implication had invoked, "Whatever it is you're thinking, you're wrong."

She looked away and sighed, her whole body sagging as though someone had cut the string that had held her upright. "I don't even know what I'm thinking," she replied softly, but with a weary bitterness to her tone. "I just...I need to know what's going on."

Giles' rage calmed as he saw her deflate in front of him. She was confused, and worried, and he could understand that. "I'll try my best to explain," he replied more gently. "Please," he gestured toward the couch, "sit down." Picking up his abandoned teacup, he took a small sip and winced at the tepid liquid. "Um, I'm going to make some fresh tea. Would you care for a cup?"

"Please," she nodded as she perched herself on the edge of his couch.

He returned several minutes later to find she had pried up one of the hardened pools of wax from the floor in front of her and was idly running her fingers over the smooth ripples, her thoughts obviously elsewhere.

"That's not good for the hardwood, you know," she nodded toward the melted candles on the floor as she heard him approach.

He chose not to address her comment, simply set the tea tray down on the coffee table that had been shoved aside, removed the candles, kicked the folded-over rug back into place overtop the remains of the candle wax, and pushed the coffee table back onto the rug. Problem solved.

Energy now drained from that little bit of exertion, he lowered himself into the chair opposite her with a sigh and a slight groan. She looked up, surveyed him, and finally seemed to realize that he looked awful. The splinted and taped fingers that leaned forward to pour the tea also caught her notice.

"Are you...all right?" she asked carefully. "What happened to you? That is, if you don't mind my asking?"

He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes briefly before lowering them back to focus on the tea. The woman before him now was the Joyce Summers he had met previously. The one who had cautiously stumbled out her sympathy over Jenny's death, and her gratitude for his looking out for Buffy. The one who had casually but sincerely offered him assistance if he needed anything, her tone light in case he saw the gesture as an intrusion. He'd always thought her to be a genuinely warm and good woman, if not a bit oblivious when it came to her daughter (not, he knew, that Buffy was always very forthcoming when it came to sharing). That oblivious nature was what had brought her here tonight to attack him with questions. She knew so little about Buffy's life, as her parent, whereas he knew more about the girl than any mere school librarian should, by outward appearances.

Part of him resented her for that.

"Oh, I'll be fine, eventually," he replied, a little more caustically than was necessary. "Just a little run in with Angel."

"Angel?" Her eyes narrowed. "Buffy's..." she appeared to struggle to come up with the correct word, "Um...friend? He hurt you?"

"Yes and no. That's where things get rather...rather complicated."

Joyce looked at him expectantly as she took the mug he offered her.

"Angel, or, more properly, Angelus...is..._was_ a vampire."

She stared at him, incredulous. "Do you expect me to believe that?" she asked with a shake of her head and a bitter laugh.

"No," he began, eyes boring into her. "I don't _expect_ you to believe anything. I'm asking that you open your eyes," something about those words made her flinch, but he ignored it and continued, "that you pay attention to what happens in this town, and to your daughter's life." He sighed, lowering his head briefly to remove his glasses. When his eyes met hers again, they were gentler. "Mrs. Summers - "

"Joyce is fine," she cut him off. The slight absurdity of formality during a conversation about vampires caused them both to pause momentarily.

"Joyce," he began again, "I know this sounds fantastical. I know that it goes against everything you've been taught to believe is and isn't true. But vampires are real. This town is a...a mystical convergence for demonic activity. A hellmouth, by common terms. Haven't you noticed the strange deaths? The overwhelming number of cemeteries and all the reports of unexplained phenomena? Think about it. You said before that you'd trusted me. I need you to trust me again. What I'm telling you is the truth, you must see that."

She took in his pleading expression. "You're asking me to believe that the monsters under the bed are real?"

"Well, not-not all of them. But most, yes. Sometimes stories aren't just stories - they're based on actual events."

"Vampires exist? Here?"

He nodded.

"And Buffy...slays...them?"

"Yes."

She looked sideways at him, eyes narrowed. "So what do _you_ have to do with this?"

He sat back in his chair with a sigh, gripping his tea so his pain-weakened hands didn't drop the mug. "I'm Buffy's watcher."

"And that would be?" She sipped her tea and waited for an explanation.

"There's a-a Council of Watchers, based in England but spread all over the world, who work to locate and assist the Slayer in her duties. She is assigned a single watcher to work closely with her. The Slayer does the physical work - she has heightened strength and reflexes - her watcher takes on the task of training and teaching her, as well as handling most of the research portion of the work. We're schooled most of our lives in demonology, ancient cultures, languages, weapons, fighting techniques, and other subjects that may be of use. The Slayer is strength and instinct, the watcher is knowledge. The two together make an effective team."

Joyce paused, taking in his words with a strange look on her face. She still seemed disbelieving, but at his mention of the Slayer's heightened strength, she blinked and seemed thoughtful, as though she'd seen evidence of it but had no explanation. Then her expression clouded again as she fixed him with a stare.

"You're saying she's your _job_?"

He leaned forward and sighed. "The simple answer is yes." His eyes turned to the floor as the volume of his voice dropped. "The truth is a bit more complicated."

She watched the emotion flicker across his face. "You do care about her, though."

His eyes met hers, and she seemed surprised to find them glassy. "I do. V-very much. It's my job to train Buffy and prepare her in her duties as Slayer. But I won't treat her like a tool; a-a weapon," he shook his head for emphasis, ignoring the jolt of pain it sent through him, "I see no reason why she shouldn't also be pushed to keep up her regular studies, get an education, and try to have some semblance of a normal life beyond being the Slayer. It's what she wants, a-and I'll..I'll not deny her that. She's incredibly strong, in more ways than one." He frowned, eyes glistening, and looked away. "She's faced so much already. I...I just hope she's all right."

Joyce was staring at him again, expression warring between empathetic compassion and confused outrage.

"Why do you make her do these things then?" She asked, quietly and without the level of malice he'd expected. "Why does she have to slay vampires? Couldn't someone else do it?"

"No," he sighed. "This is the way it's always been. One girl in all the world. When one dies, another is called. Always a young girl. I haven't a clue why."

"Called?" Her confused eyes pleaded to understand while still looking skeptical.

"When Buffy became the Slayer. It would have been around the time that she started having trouble at school."

Joyce seemed to think for a moment, remembering. "The gym..."

"Full of vampires," Giles nodded. "She destroyed it to destroy them. She wasn't acting out or being destructive without reason."

She nodded, slowly, still lost in thought. "I never could figure out why...I mean, Buffy's not a bad kid...trouble just seems to find her since...since around that time, actually."

"Yes, I imagine it would have seemed confusing."

"You have no idea," she replied in a tone that made him wonder if she meant to sound quite so...scathing. She looked away, and her attention drifted toward a small wooden carving on the side table. It was a simple unpainted figure with a spear held ready in one hand and the other hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun as he gazed steadily into the distance, prepared for anything. Her head tilted sideways as she considered it. "That looks familiar," she finally said.

"It was a Christmas gift from Buffy," he informed her with a nod. "I'd assumed it came from your gallery."

"Oh, yes, now I remember." She studied the carving. "It came with a shipment of African art. There was a whole collection of these warrior carvings. I think this one was called..." Her voice trailed off as a small undefinable smile crept across her face. She looked away. "It's called "The Watcher."

He couldn't help the tiny smile that pulled his lips upward. "Yes," he replied as he looked down at his tea shyly. "She told me."

Joyce turned her attention back to him. He could feel her eyes as she studied him as intently as she'd studied the carving - never needing to pick it up or touch it. She observed. "Well," she spoke, quietly. "It's unlike Buffy to be so considerate when choosing gifts. Oh," she shook her head, "that came out wrong. I mean, I know her heart is in the right place, but I'm pretty sure her father's entire necktie collection exists because of her." The smile tugged at the corners of his mouth again at her words. In a gentle tone, almost a whisper, she finished her thought. "She must really like you."

Giles raised his eyes to hers at the declaration. They held the look for several very long seconds before Joyce dropped her gaze.

The silent pause was long enough for Giles to feel the need to break it. "More tea?" he asked as he reached out to refill his own cup.

"No, thank you," she replied. He sat back in his chair and glanced up at her in time to notice her watching his hands. His injuries.

"So do you know...I mean did Buffy tell you...about...Angel? A-about...them?"

His expression must have shown his uncertainty about exactly what aspect of "them" she was referring to, because she continued to clarify. "Together, I mean. That they were...you know..._together_." She fidgeted uncomfortably, and he realized what she meant.

"Oh," he tried to stop his eyes from going a little wide, and failed spectacularly. "Oh, um, yes. I know."

Joyce studied her teacup intently. "How?" she asked in a quiet voice. "Did she...tell you, or...?"

He suddenly understood what she was getting at, and why she seemed about to break. "Joyce," he said gently, getting her attention. "I only found out because of what happened after, which I'll explain in a moment, if you're willing to hear it. But, I...she didn't tell me directly, a-and I don't know if Buffy would have ever confided in me otherwise. I'd imagine it would be rather, uh, rather awkward for us both. I'm...I'm really not privy to the details of her life beyond her slayer duties. I only know what she tells me, which isn't often a great deal." He left out that he'd become skilled at gleaning bits of information from the conversations the children had in the library while they believed him to be busy and paying them no attention.

"Still," she sighed. "You didn't have to find out when Angel showed up on your front lawn and broke the news to you."

He winced. "No. I...can't imagine that was pleasant."

"It was frightening. He seemed insane. I just...I can't believe that he and Buffy...I didn't even know she was seeing anyone." She looked down again. "She's growing up so fast."

Giles merely nodded in silent understanding.

A quiet pause settled over them once again, before Giles broke it. "It was a-a bit of a surprise to me as well. I - I knew Buffy loved him, and I knew he cared a great deal about her. But I thought it a case of youthful infatuation." He smiled ruefully. "Sometimes we forget how mature we thought we were at that age. She just seemed so young...e-especially, I would've thought, to Angel. I rather assumed he'd known better than to let it get that far."

"But you did know they were...dating?" Joyce asked. "But I thought...but you said - " she closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, gathering her thoughts. "I don't know what to believe, but didn't you say Angel was a vampire? How could you let her get involved with...with a _creature_, if you knew? Why would you condone it? And if she's a vampire slayer, why didn't he try to kill her? Why didn't she slay _him_?" She sighed. "I don't understand any of this."

Giles waited until he was sure her questioning was finished before speaking. "Angel is - was - a vampire, yes. But he was cursed with a soul, causing him to understand all the evil he'd done, and to be morally appalled at his actions. He was, pardon the oxymoron, a _good_ vampire. And, for the record, I didn't actually condone Buffy's involvement with him. But I'm - I'm not her parent, Joyce. I don't hold the same kind of authority that you do. I can advise her, I can give her my opinion, and I can, and have, on occasion, even scolded her. But I also must respect her choices and her instincts, even if I don't agree with them. I - I don't...punish her, or tell her what she can and can't do. I tried that when I first met her, and I soon learned that Buffy is her own person. Strong-willed and stubborn. I can merely disagree and tell her if I believe she's acting foolishly. She's got to learn on her own how to grow up, how to make correct choices. Her decisions are hers alone, and I will always support her and help her through whatever consequences may arise from those decisions. And, though I never felt comfortable about it, her relationship with Angel made her happy, and he appeared to be very good to her. I wasn't about to deny her that little bit of happiness, doomed though I knew it to be, when she lives in a world filled with so much sacrifice and heartache already. Most slayers never get the chance to have anything resembling a normal life. If I can, I'll allow her to have as much of one as possible."

He met Joyce's eyes to find her looking at him thoughtfully. "That's actually not far off, you know."

"From...?" He inquired, slightly perplexed.

"From being a parent," she explained. "I understand that feeling. Wanting her to be happy even though you know she's probably going to end up getting hurt." She sighed. "But there's the added pain of having to be the bad guy, knowing your child resents you for butting into her life, even though it's for her own good." There was a pause as Joyce hung her head in shame. "Not that I'm always the most mature about it, myself. Even parents can get carried away during a shouting match and say things they don't mean."

Giles observed her embarrassed silence and wondered just what she was implying. Had she said something to Buffy? Had they fought before she ran away? It would certainly explain her mother's odd mood swings - she was looking for answers, but she was also hoping to find something or someone else to blame. He'd let it go for now. She obviously still had things to work out, and he was here to provide her answers about Buffy's role as the Slayer, not to play therapist. He was too bloody tired and in too much of his own pain to take on the burden of anyone else's. Perhaps he was being selfish, but he hurt too much to care.

"Well," he continued, "I suppose there is something somewhat...parental...about the role of Watcher. In many cultures slayers are even placed into their watcher's custody in order for them to focus on their work." At Joyce's somewhat appalled and wary expression, he quickly clarified. "That's not going to happen with Buffy. My position at the school ensures that I spend enough time with her. I'd never take her away from you or her friends, and I'll fight the Council if they ever so much as suggest such a thing," he hastily reassured her.

Joyce nodded. "Thank you. She's...all I have..." She looked away and tried to surreptitiously wipe the wetness from her eyes.

"I know," he replied, voice gentle. "I'm trying my hardest to find her, through every method available to me." He didn't clarify what those methods were, and wouldn't, unless she asked. She didn't need to know about location spells and magic just yet. "I have contacts reporting anything promising to me, and as soon as I'm well enough to travel I'll be following up on any leads I get. For now I'm rather stuck here." The frustration in his tone ended up being a little more evident than he'd intended.

"Thank you," she said again, but as she looked at him she seemed to ponder his injuries yet again. "But, um, about that...if Angel was a 'good' vampire, and he treated Buffy as well as you say, why did he hurt you? Why did he say those things to me at my house? Why was Buffy so upset after...after what had happened?"

"Because," Giles began, "his curse was not without a, uh, 'catch.' If Angel experienced true happiness, even just one moment of it, he would lose his soul and revert back to his demonic form - known as Angelus. That's who you met - the unsouled vampire. Vampires can be especially cruel."

"Oh." Joyce looked confused and more than a little skeptical. "So what suddenly made him happy?"

Giles just looked at her. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to spell it out.

"Oh. OH!" She blushed slightly, then sighed. "Oh. So, um, that's how you knew?" He nodded. "Poor Buffy. I went all 'mom' on her and lectured her about her irresponsibility, but I had no idea of the actual consequences she was facing. How humiliating."

"Quite," he agreed. "There's, there's more to explain, a-about all of it, and about the things Angelus did, and how Buffy had to stop him. It might help to explain why she ran away. If-if you'd like to hear it? It's not particularly pleasant."

"Yes," she nodded. "I think I would. I'm just trying to understand all of this. I want to know more so I can make it all make sense in my head."

And so he told her everything, leaving out no detail, or at least no detail that he was aware of. He told her how Buffy had met Angel, the story of how he'd been cursed by gypsies, of Jenny and the secret of her family background and why she'd been in Sunnydale, of Angel's change, his psychological games, and Jenny's murder. He told her how Jenny had been working on a way to re-curse Angel, and about how Willow tried to do it herself. He told her about Acathla, about what Buffy had to do to stop Angel. He told her about his torture and how the vampires had managed to extract the truth from him. And he told her about Sunnydale itself - about the strange occurrences in the town, about what Buffy had already faced, and about how she had even died once and nobody but her small group of friends had ever known.

When he was finished, it had grown quite a bit later in the evening, and the tea had gone completely cold.

Joyce was looking at him with a different sort of expression from any he'd seen on her face in the past. It was, perhaps, a new kind of appreciation for the life they all led below the radar of the average person. Saving the world without the slightest bit of recognition went with the job, but that didn't mean a little recognition wasn't welcome from time to time. Her eyes also held renewed sympathy for him, whether due to his torture, or Jenny's murder - or both - he wasn't sure, but that expression was oddly welcome as well, he thought. It was...nice, to talk about all of this with another adult again.

Her attention shifted to the wall behind him as she caught sight of the clock. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "It's late. I should go."

He stood when she did, albeit much more slowly, to walk her to the door.

At the door, she stopped and turned to him. "Thank you for the tea," she said politely, "and for the explanation. I still don't know what I think about any of this. I don't know if you're making sense or if you're just crazy. But at least you've told me something."

He nodded. He knew she wouldn't be easily persuaded, but at least she had information to mull over. "Joyce, can I just ask you one thing?" he inquired. At her quizzical head tilt, he continued. "Why did you wait so long to contact me?" It wasn't as biting as when he'd asked earlier. It was a sincere question.

She hung her head, whether in guilt or embarrassment, he didn't know. "I just...hoped she might come back. They say most runaways return within a day or two. That's all the police would give me. I thought she'd calm down and return, and everything would be just like it was before. But after three days of nothing, I'm worrying. I wasn't sure what to say to you. I wasn't even sure who you really were. I wanted _Buffy_ to explain things to me, not someone I'd only met a couple of times." She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. "I thought she'd come back."

"She will," he assured her as best he could. "We'll find her. I'm doing everything I can at the moment."

"Thank you," she said again. "Will you let me know if you find out anything?"

"Of course," he nodded.

She smiled half-heartedly and walked out the door.

Giles stood in the doorway and watched her leave, waiting until he heard the sound of her car engine roaring to life. Satisfied that she'd made it across the courtyard safely, he closed the door and hobbled back to his chair, not bothering to clean up the tea things. He'd do that tomorrow.

He sunk into the chair with a sigh. Joyce Summers was not an easily persuaded woman. It was often a trait he admired in others, but in this instance it was proving to be most frustrating. If she could accept Buffy's life as the Slayer, she would be a great ally and provide the kind of support to Buffy that he himself couldn't. If she refused to accept it, she would be a formidable stumbling block toward Buffy's own acceptance of herself. He hoped she'd see reason.

Absently reaching for his spell book, he hissed in pain as he once again forgot about his damaged fingers and managed to bump them into the side table.

The jolt of pain passed, and he opened the book to where he'd left off, intending to do more research into a better location spell.

After a few minutes his head began to droop, and a few minutes after that he was fast asleep in his chair, book still open in his lap.

He dreamt of Buffy – home with Joyce and enjoying a happy reunion.

He dreamt of Jenny – smiling at him in that teasing way she always had right before she'd kiss him.

And he hurt.

_End._

* * *

Author's note: Written for a fic exchange with the lovely Valjavertjinn/Calendiles. She had hers finished right away. She's been waiting on mine for, um, months? Sorry, sweetie! I'm the slowest writer on the planet. Her prompts were post-Becoming, Giles, and the words window, wax, and ripple. This is not at all a very pleasant story, but I hope she likes it anyway! And also, happy birthday, dear. :o)


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